High School: Life on Mars?
by wham-bam-thank-you-mam
Summary: When David Bowie arrives at Bromley Academy, a disciplinary boarding school, he thinks he'll never fit in. After meeting classmates Marc Bolan and Mick Jagger, and discovering his musical talent, however, he realizes that there just might be life on Mars.
1. Changes

**Chapter One: _Changes_**

David Bowie had been in Bromley Academy for less than an hour and he could already list a dozen things he hated about it. First there was the uniform: A boring navy blue suit jacket over a white collared shirt, khaki pants, and a maroon tie striped with silver. There were the students: bland and identical, practically stock characters out of 1984, David's favorite novel. Then there was the building—a dark and gloomy castle, its narrow windows and endless corridors reminding David more of the Tower of London than Buckingham Palace.

"Well, young David, here is your schedule," said the principal, Mr. Mosley, adjusting his toupee. "You had better get to class before the bell, or else you'll have to face the consequences—you'll learn to face the consequences here."

Whatever, thought David. He'd debated skipping the class, but it was his first day. He gave the principal a steady stare, not speaking, until Mr. Mosley turned to go back to his office, brown loafers tapping on the floor. David looked down at the paper in his hand:

SCHEDULE:

Period 1: Chemistry

Period 2: Deportment

Period 3: Math

Period 5: Music

Period 6: English

Well, I know what I'll be skipping tomorrow...all of it.

The bell rang before he could find the room his class was in. So much for a starting off with a clean slate. He pushed open the door of room 114, mentally preparing himself to walk into a room full of strangers; he wasn't shy, but he wasn't too eager to be stared at by a roomful of strangers. Before he went through, he tucked the ends of his brown-blond mullet behind his ears and took a deep breath. He closed the door behind him.

"Ahem," an elderly voice said before David could take another step. "What do you think you're doing?" He turned his head languidly toward the teacher. The man was hideously old; liver spotted, with stringy grey hair and a creased face.

"Sitting down."

"Ah, I see. You think you can just walk into my class, 36 seconds late, and waltz into your seat? What's your name?"

"David. David Bowie."

"You're not listed here," the teacher jabbed a gnarled finger at his attendance sheet. David pressed his lips together in annoyance.

"It might be under Jones."

"Ah yes, David Jones. I see. Hmm; expelled from your last school for fighting and for having a grade average of D?" David felt his cheeks begin to burn. He didn't mind people knowing that he was a fighter; he was a little proud of that. But his grades; they were only low because he skipped and back-talked teachers, but how were the others to know? What if they thought he was stupid?

"Well, take this." The teacher thrust a blue slip of paper into David's hand. "My name is Professor Steel. I teach chemistry. You may sit there." He pointed to a seat in the third row, between the wall and a boy with shoulder long, curly black hair. Exhaling deeply, David quickly walked over to his chair and sat down, pulling a red notebook out of his satchel.

A few agonizing moments of silence followed as Professor Steel sorted through some papers on his desk. The other students in the room stared shamelessly at him. Soon enough, as he had expected, he heard them whispering— "His eyes. Look at his eyes..."

His eyes were the reason he was here in the first place—well, not exactly; he was kicked out of his last school after a schoolyard fight with his best mate, a fight which had nearly blinded him. Instead, his left eye was permanently dilated larger than the other, like a murder of ravens flying across his sky blue eyes. And so his parents had enrolled him here, the last place he wanted to be, a high-discipline boarding school designed to turn him into a productive member of society. Whatever that means, David thought.

"Now," said Professor Steel, "We will not begin to study the subject of chemistry until you have a full understanding of what I expect from you, and what punishments you will receive if you fail to meet those expectations." He fixed his watery eyes a moment on David's forget-me-not blue ones.

He proceeded to give the regular spiel: grade percentages, class policy, all the boring subjects that they would cover during the year. David glanced around the room. Most of the people looked the same; blond and brown bowl cut hair, straight ties and studious looks on their corpse-like faces. But there were a few; the boy beside him, for instance. He wasn't paying attention to the monotone voice of Professor Steel. Instead, he was scribbling in his notebook, face tight with pure concentration. His hand blocked what he was doodling.

"Hey," whispered David. The boy looked over with a start, surprised out of his reverie. He had a round face with a thin, turned-up nose and cedar brown eyes, misty as though he was in a day-dream. He focused on David curiously.

"What're you drawing?" the boy moved his hand to reveal a picture of what must have been a gnome, short and squat with warts and wrinkles. Underneath, the word BELTANE had been written in block capitals and underlined several times.

"You new?" asked the boy, shaking his curls away from his high cheekbones.

"Just started today," David managed, before the professor threw them both an icy glare. The boy quickly turned the page of his notebook and wrote "chemistry" at the top. David licked his lips nervously, fixing his mismatched gaze on his paper. He didn't want to make a fool of himself today, his first day. Before anything worse could happen, the bell rang, dismissing them to their next class: deportment.

"What is deportment?" asked Professor Winger shrilly, her silver hair and straight cut, swishing as she turned her head sharply. "You! What's your name? Jones?"

"It's Bowie," David explained for the umpteenth time.

"Well?"

"Manners?" he hazarded. He was out of his element, that was sure. Who even had classes on deportment, anyway? He looked around him, at the other students. Did they know? It was a multi-year class, so some of them must have already had this lesson.

"Wrong," she said severely. "Deportment is the study of bearing yourself correctly in society and making yourself presentable."

"Surely that includes manners?" asked another boy from behind David. He turned to lay eyes on a tall young man, impossibly skinny with shaggy brown hair and thick, full lips. His tie was loose around his neck, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a little triangle of white skin.

"Ah. Mick." the teacher paused a second, as though making up her mind whether to shout at him or praise him. "You're perfectly right. But it would be wrong to assume that deportment is limited to manners."

"Of course, professor," he said with a wry smile. David felt his heart jump a beat. He frowned, worried that he might be coming down with cardiac arrhythmia.

"Today we will learn about dressing smartly in day wear, such as what you are wearing right now. The older boys should pair with the younger ones and show them how to tie a tie correctly, and how they ought to tuck their shirts and so on. I will inspect you all in a half hour."

David waited awkwardly, unfamiliar with anyone there save the long haired pixie from his earlier class. The other boys seemed like they were familiar with their elders, and they all wanted to pair with the brown haired boy who'd spoken up earlier. Strangely, though, the boy didn't choose any of them, instead walking straight up to David. His heart skipped again.

"You're new, right?" the boy asked. "Need a partner?"

"Y-yeah," David stuttered, suddenly unable to keep his normal cool.

"Great," said the boy. "The name's Mick. Mick Jagger." He held out his hand and David took it. Luckily, his heart behaved itself this time. He would have to see the nurse about that.

"So...deportment" David looked up at Mick's eyes for a moment.

"Yep, nothing for it," said Mick. "Your tie needs to be in a full windsor knot–here, let me show you." He reached forward and untied David's knot while the latter stood as still as a statue. "You just need to do a little extra bit, here." He wrapped the cloth around, pulled through, then tightened it around David's neck, smoothing out his lapels. David didn't move.

"Do you need me to tuck in your shirt tails for you, too?" Mick said with a laugh.

"Oh, no, er, sorry," David hurriedly tucked his shirt in, glancing up every few moments to watch Mick tying his tie properly, doing up the last of his shirt buttons. He had the darkest blue eyes, deep as the unfathomable mystery that we call the sea and glinting with compassion. His hair, thick and chestnut made David want to run his fingers through it—what was he thinking? I've got to be coming down with something, he thought anxiously. What if Mick noticed?

"Half an hour is, as they say, up." All the boys turned to face Ms. Winger nervously. Even David was strangely concerned that he do well, though it might have something to do with Mick standing beside him, shirtsleeves brushing David's.

She stalked down the line of boys, shaking her head at most of them, eyes narrowed behind her angular glasses. She stopped in front of David for a few painful moments before giving him a sharp nod.

"Well done, Mick." She examined David with her steely eyes. "You can learn a lot from him, Jones."

"Bowie," David muttered. He could feel Mick smirk beside him. As Ms. Winger continued to the rest of the boys, David could feel his ears going red in frustration. What made Mick so special? What right did they have to inspect him and call him by the wrong name? In his old school, he would have made class hell for her after that, but now he didn't know what to do. As much as he hated it, he didn't want to act that way in front of these boys. In front of Mick. Was he turning into just another of these automaton clones?


	2. Rebel, Rebel

**Chapter 2: Rebel, Rebel**

Before David could feel any worse, the lunch bell rang like a death knell and the other students began to gather their satchels.

"You okay, David?" Mick asked, noticing David's ears which were burning red as firebrands.

"I'm fine." David put his own satchel over his shoulder.

"Come and have lunch with me—I can introduce you to people." Mick gave him a helpful sort of smile.

"I—" for a moment, David had been about to say yes. To say yes to this...this...he didn't know what. It wasn't anything he was used to. It wasn't quite the Orwellian monotony of the other pupils, but Mick wasn't the sort of person he would have hung out with at his old school. He would have steered clear of any boy who seemed to enjoy tucking in his shirt and tying a full...whatever it was called. He would have given him a black eye in the alley behind school.

"No, that's all right," David said, not quite able to bring himself to be rude to this boy. David's heart stopped at the very thought. He could feel his neck starting to flush again, but it wasn't from anger.

"You sure?"

"Yes." David tried to ignore Mick's look of disappointment, the way the spark in his eye flickered out, and he quickly turned down a poorly-lit hallway before he could see any more.

—

David had never been able to play it cool, to be nonchalant and above it all, letting his emotions go. Now was no different. He could feel the humiliation, the shame of being turned into one of these automatons, the mysterious awkwardness he felt around Mick, and the anger, too. The anger took over slowly, bubbling up like the magma in Vesuvius, until his fists were clenched so tight his fingernails cut his hand.

"Damn them," he shouted suddenly, punching his fist against the cinderblock wall. His knuckles shouted at him, scraped and bleeding, but he didn't pay them any attention. He walked over to a window and pulled it open, sticking his head out into the cold March air. For a moment, he contemplated climbing out the window and walking away from it all—the discipline, this school, his parents, his home—leaving it all behind him and making a new life for himself.

But what could he do? He didn't have any skills to speak of. Sure, he was smart, but he didn't pay enough attention in school to make anything of it. He could fight, but he wasn't about to become some thug. No, now wasn't the time to leave.

"Hey, you were David, right?" a dreamy voice breathed behind him. David turned to see the pixie with the storm cloud of brown hair from his chemistry class. What was his name?

"Yes," David said tersely. His anger dissipated, David was annoyed that someone should come and see him in this state. His hand was throbbing.

"I thought you might like to get something to eat. I mean, with me." He gave David a big smile that seemed to fill his face, and for a moment his eyes were clear and focused, seeming to stare through David's eyes and into his soul.

David gave a weak smile back, feeling strangely light-hearted. It was as though a crystalline breeze had blown in through the open window and swept out his resentment and ire.

"Okay," he said bracingly. "Where's the cafeteria?"

"Just over here." Marc turned around, his hair swishing, and headed down the corridor. As David followed in his wake, he smelled something dark and woody.

"You wear cologne?" David asked, falling into step with Marc.

"No, sandalwood," he said, and pushed open two double doors to their left.

—

The room was huge, the ceiling soaring to a high arch, painted the same blank white as the walls. Six heavy oak tables filled the center of the room, and the hundred or so boys who sat around them filled the room with their echoing conversations, so that it sounded like there were twice as many. A little weak light filtered in through some windows on one wall, but it did little to dispel the gloom.

"Why don't we sit over here?" Marc tried to sit at the end of one of the long benches, but the boy at the end gave him a dark look and moved so that there wasn't enough room. Marc smiled sweetly and walked back toward the edge of the room.

"If you wait long enough, there's room," he said, lightly, as though trying to make a joke of it. David could feel himself getting angry again, but this time he was cold as arctic ice.

"What the hell?" he said. "You can't let them—"

"Don't worry about it, David. I'm easy."

"Look, if you're not going to do anything about it," he said, louder. A few boys turned around. David stepped forward and grabbed the shoulder of the boy who'd blocked Marc, yanking him to his feet.

"There enough room for you now, Marc?" he asked, pointing toward the empty seat. He felt in control of his anger this time. The other feelings were still there, underneath, but everything was focused on this boy.

"David..."

The boy pulled himself free of David's grip and threw a fist at his face. David ducked just in time, elbowing the boy hard under the chin. Before the boy could gather himself, David punched him in the stomach. He crumpled to the ground with a gasp, and three other boys sprang up. David raised his fists in front of his face.

"Come on then," he said with a laugh. It felt good to be moving again.

The biggest boy rushed him, shoving him hard against the wall. The impact only made David more eager for the fight. He kneed his attacker and broke free.

"David, a professor'll come," Marc said pleadingly. David stood, barely sweating, in front of the three boys. He pushed his hair behind his ears.

"Scared, new boy?" one asked. David could feel a flash of rage shoot through him, a desire hotter than starfire to sink his fist into the boy's pudgy cheek. He took a breath.

"Maybe you're right," he said to Marc. "Let's blow this place."

—

In the end, they snuck out behind the school and shared a cigarette on the brown-green grass. It was David's, from a pack he'd nicked the day before, sure that smokes would be banned in this school. He hadn't been wrong.

"Hey, thanks for that,' said Marc, loosely gesturing toward the cafeteria with one elegant hand. A silver ring, woven like a Celtic know, caught the light for second.

"It's nothing," said David. He felt strangely...calm, if you could call it that. His anger, his resentment, they was there, but he still felt good. He could take on anything, if he wanted to. And he did want to. Those boys would regret this afternoon's encounter, he would make sure of it.


	3. Cracked Actor

**Chapter 3: Cracked Actor**

_ You sold me illusions for a sack full of cheques_

_You've made a bad connection 'cause I just want your sex_

David surprised himself by coming to school the next day, There was something about the way Marc, the pixie boy, has smiled at him, the way David's cheeks flushed whenever he thought of Mick, the shaggy haired upperclassman with eyes like starlight.

He still didn't know what to do about Mick. He didn't even know the boy's last name, much the less if he wanted to know him any better. Marc was, well, helpless and oblivious, and David felt almost duty-bound to help him. Besides, the kid made him...happy.

Mick, on the other hand, was just a jumble of emotions. David assumed they were embarrassment—at being so drawn toward friendship with someone who seemed to represent the establishment, and who played into the hands of the teachers.

All the other boys avoided him as he walked to his first class, taking note of his black eye and tie-less collar. He walked into the gym's changing room and put down his bag, looking for Marc. Sure enough, there he was in the corner, only half changed into his gym clothes, reading a book by Blake.

"Hey, Marc."

"David, hey," he said, not looking up. "What do you think about Faefriend?"

David looked at him confused. "What?"

"Marc Faefriend, you know. It's got a sound, doesn't it?"

"Sure," said David, smiling. He couldn't help but be cheerful looking at those eager, soft brown eyes. "You gonna finish getting change?"

"Oh, yeah, right," said Marc, hastily unbuttoning his shirt. David turned away and pulled his gym shirt and shorts out of his bag. He shrugged off his navy blue jacket, letting it fall carelessly to the floor. Unbuttoning his shirt, he paused a moment to frown at his pale skin. It was like alabaster, smooth and supple. He'd often wished that he'd look more manly, have bronze skin and iron abs, but suddenly that didn't seem so important. Not here. He rolled his shoulders, feeling his muscles shift in his back.

Sighing, he pulled off his shirt and put on his white gym tank. Sliding his hands down his thighs, he pulled his khaki slacks off and pulled on his red shorts. They only reached half-way to his knees. He turned back to Marc, who was looking at his book, studiously. When he looked up at David, he was blushing.

"You okay?"

"What? Yeah, er, I just get embarrassed having to change in front of everyone..."

David nodding, shoving his jacket under a bench with his foot.

"Okay boys, get up, 10 laps around the gym," shouted a short, red-faced man who David took to be their gym instructor. A few groaned, but everyone took off at the man's scowl.

With a few easy strides, David was at the front, his long legs carrying him past the others. He loved the way it felt to be running out in the clear, free of the encroaching shoulders and elbows of the other boys. Out of his usual long pants, the air felt cool and refreshing against his ivory legs.

Marc was somewhere behind, daydreaming as he ran in the back. He was so careless, content to be who he was. He was only half-running, really, his curly locks bouncing. His eyes half-closed, he hadn't even broke a sweat.

Around and around they went, David occasionally pushing a few stray locks away from his face, the gym teacher shouting at the slower boys (especially Marc), and Marc, practically tripping over his feet he was so wrapped up in some thought or fantasy.

"All right, punks, I've seen enough," snarled the gym teacher, eyeing a blond boy who was only just ahead of Marc, his long flaxen hair damp against his flushed brow. "I want fifty pushups." Again, the class groaned, many still panting from their run. "NOW!"

Immediately, thirty boys were on the floor, heaving. David, if anything, felt refreshed. He wasn't ripped, but he had strong biceps from schoolyard fights, so he barely exerted himself doing the exercise. His cobalt veins showed through his almost translucent skin on his hands. Marc, beside him, had stopped mid push-up to stare at a beam of sunlight that had flashed down from the tall windows.

_One, two, one, two_...David counted in his head, letting his mind detach from the work. He gazed around at the other boys, then the teacher. He was staring at the yellow haired boy, biting his lip. Why is he so interested in that boy?

Before they could even get to playing floor-hockey, the hellish bells rang again. Marc started, as though waking up.

"Finally," he said, giving David a lop-sided smile. "It's so boring. I'd rather just be bopping around."

"Dancing isn't the same as sport, though," David said. Marc raised his eyebrows.

"You ever danced for three hours? Anyone who says that isn't a workout can...go ride a bike."

David laughed, prompting another ear-to-ear smile from Marc. "You really know how to tell 'em," he said, punching Marc lightly on the shoulder.

"Hey, I'm just telling it like it is. I don't have time for kids that can't appreciate a good dance."

The pair walked back to the changing room, which was already steaming up from the showers. At least they're hot here, David thought, grimacing at the memory of the icy showers of his old school. He stripped off his tank, idly throwing it among his other clothes. Then, there was the uncomfortable moment where he would have to strip his shorts, as well.

David didn't really mind, though, it always felt natural to him. What did he care if someone saw him, even if he was pale as moonlight? He stepped into the shower, sighing as the hot water hit his chest, tracing rivulets between his ribs. Marc came in behind him, but when David glanced at him, the pixie boy was studiously staring at his feet beneath the stream of hot water. Funny—David hadn't pinned him for someone to be self-conscious, but maybe it had to do with his earlier embarrassment.

David stretched his arms in front of him, stealing a last moment in the heat, before walking back to the changing room and grabbing a towel. He only had to wait another minute for Marc, his pile of curls barely reduced in volume. Once he was dressed, Marc shook his hair like a wet dog.

"Hey!" David said, his face covered in droplets.

"Too slow," said Marc with a smile.

"What do you have next?"

"Art, you?"

David looked down at his schedule. "Math. I'll see you later then?"

"Sure, we can meet up at lunch." And with that, the fae boy bounced out of the room.

David ruffled his mullet once more with the towel before shrugging on his suit jacket. It was then that he heard the voices.

"Please, I don't want to." It sounded like someone David's age. Curious, he edged closer to the end of the locker row, where the voice was coming from.

"What, do I have to pay you? You'll be there, Ronson. The basement again, room five. Alone, of course. I might even have something special for you, big boy. Two o'clock." The two left the locker room.

_Big boy_? David thought. Could it be what he thought? That man was...disgusting. David shivered. So that was why he'd stared so peculiarly at the blond boy. Ronson. He would have to go and put a stop to whatever was going to happen. He looked at the clock—1:30. No point in going to class, he'd have to leave too soon.

It took him five minutes to find the basement stairs. Descending into the cold, damp hall, he pulled his suit jacket tighter around his slim frame. He walked slowly down the hall, peering in the rooms.

Most of them were empty, small rooms with a table and chair, or a lone music stand. Practice and study rooms, David concluded. The window of the next room was covered with black paper, but David could hear something inside. He pressed his ear to the door and heard...

The flight of an osprey, flying through the sea-spray, the shimmer of the rainbow touching a forest of green and yellow. Sunlight hitting a hillside, the silver flash of a fish too quick to see. Music like he had never heard, a sweet yet rough voice accompanied by the pure tones of a guitar. David couldn't breathe. He was frozen, listening to that dulcet sound.

David didn't know how much time had passed, but by the time he defrosted and found room five, it was already occupied. A hand on the door knob, he pressed his ear to the windowless door, preparing for the worst.

"Ready big boy?" the gym teacher said. David could hear the scrape of a chair. "Let's start right in—I've got your surprise all ready for you." Without wasting a second longer, he turned the knob and walked in.

* * *

><p>If you head over to my profile page, you can vote on the themesong title for the next chapter!


	4. Always Crashing in the Same Car

**Always Crashing in the Same Car**

_I was always looking left and right_

_Oh, but I'm always crashing_

_in the same car_

"What the Hell—"

David had taken two steps into the room before he realized that something wrong. Or, rather, that the wrong thing was wrong. The gym teacher and "Ronson" were sitting across from each other at a desk, a sheet of paper between them. It showed a diagram of a rugby field, with some arrows criss-crossing over it.

"What are you doing?" the professor asked gruffly. Ronson was looking at David, bewildered.

"I—" David swallowed. "Wrong room." He turned quickly and stepped back out. He closed the door behind him. "Now you got to make sure the other team doesn't get a guy past these defenses," the coach was saying. David could feel his ears turning red hot. He turned the corner of the hall, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. He felt ready to melt of embarrassment. What had he been thinking? Since when was he mister hero of the small, anyway? It wasn't who he had been, before.

David climbed the stairs back to the first floor. The halls were empty, as everyone was in class. He leaned beside the water fountain, carefully pulling a cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it. He had just taken a long drag when two boys came out of a room down the hall. When they saw David, they stopped and stared.

It was them. The kids who David had fought a few short days before. Without thinking, he snuffed the cigarette on the wall and tucked it back into his pocket. He took a few steps toward the boys. After the embarrassment of a moment before, David could feel his resentment bubbling over. He had to show someone a lesson, and why not someone who deserved it?

"Hey, don't try anything, Jonesy," the larger boy, presumably the leader, said, cracking his knuckles one by one. "Wouldn't want you to get hurt."

"I think you'll find it's Bowie," said David, dropping his jacket to the floor and pushing his sleeves up.

"Yeah, that's what I said, Jonesy boy." The boy handed his own jacket to the slim one. David took another step forward, putting his fists up. The boy followed suit.

For a moment, the two stood face to face, each waiting for the other to move.

The boy lunged forward, one giant fist crashing into David's chest. David turned with the blow, dropping his fists and wrapping his arm around the boy's neck. Surprised, he tried to pull out of David's grip, but David moved with him, pushing him so that he crashed forward into a locker.

Before the boy could move again, David grabbed the hair on the back of his head, yanking the boy's head backwards. Suddenly, the slim kid was on him from behind, pulling David off his the larger one. David jerked one elbow backwards, grunting as it crunched into the kid's nose. Turning, David shoved him in the chest, so that he fell back. Before the kid could stand again, David kicked him in the groin, smiling as he cried out.

This felt good. If he'd been fighting this good at his old school, he'd still have two matching eyes. Adrenaline rushed through his veins, and David's good eye good eye dilated to match the other.

In the meantime, the other boy had been edging away down the hall. David turned to face him cooly. The boy started to stumble away more quickly, but David grabbed him, pulling him forward. The boy grabbed David's face between his hands, and the two fell to the floor. For a moment, they struggled, but then David was on top, his knee pinning the boy to the floor. Grabbing the boy's hair, he pulled his head up, then whacked it on the floor, hard. The boy cried out, tearing at David's shirt to no avail. David smashed his head again. And, even though the boy was now clawing at his face, he smashed the kid's once more.

"BOYS!" a wiry, grey-haired man was quickly walking toward them, a furious scowl on his face. He glared at David.

"Mr. Jones! Release Mr. Astor at once!" David looked up, his adrenaline still pumping, sweat beading down his brow. He was vaguely aware of the sensation of blood trickling down his cheek.

"What do you think you were doing?"

The boy, Astor, broke into tears. "He—he attacked me."

David tried to focus on the man's face, opening his mouth, but nothing came out. His eyes were glued behind the professor. There stood a cluster of students, some horrified, some excited. And in the midst of them, Mick. The look his deep blue eyes were giving David turned his stomach. For a moment longer, they stared at him, before Mick turned swiftly away.

There was only one word for it: Disappointment.

—

In the end, David got off surprisingly easy for the fight. He had one day of suspension (for which Marc played hooky. The two spent the day on the town, replenishing their cheap cigarettes and browsing records), and detentions for two more days.

Detentions weren't so bad—an hour with the deportment teacher, balancing books on his head while cleaning the classroom. He might have skipped them, but there was a specter haunting him now. Every time he thought of anything out of line (well, not anything...) a crystal clear image of Mick flashed into his mind. Mick with his shaggy locks of chocolate hair. Mick with his eyes, two deep blue wells through which David felt like he could see eternity. Mick disappointed in David.

Since when had he cared what some other boy thought about him? But he couldn't get it out of his head, no matter how much he tried. So he wrote his lines and did more of his homework than usual.

Apart from the ghost of Mick, the only other thing that haunted David was what he had heard in the basement practice rooms. That soulful, transcendent music which had filled David with intense longing, that had sent him flying. As he walked out of his last detention, he resolved to try something new.

"Hey, Marc," David said, sliding onto the dining hall bench beside the elf boy. Said elf had his eyes gently closed, his pouting mouth slowly forming words that certainly weren't English. "Marc?"

Marc's eyes slowly opened, taking a moment to focus on David's face.

"David," he said, "sorry, I was contemplating the universe." David tried to keep from smiling, pressing his lips tightly together.

"Is that right?" he said.

"Yeah, I was trying to imagine it suffused in light, you know..." he rubbed his eyes and straightened up.

"You play guitar, right?" David asked, driving to the point before Marc tried to explain further.

"Sure," said Marc, smiling widely, "just your good old boogie and bop."

"Do you think you could show me a few chords or something?" David pressed.

"Of course!" Mac said brightly, pushing a wayward curl out of his eyes. "I can lend you my old guitar, if you want. It's nothing special, but it'll stay in tune."

"That'd be perfect," said David.

"I'll bring it tomorrow, then. We can skip chem and I'll show you the trick to it."

—

The guitar was old and scratched, but David could care less. The second Marc showed him how to hold it, it felt right. His fingers curled over the strings, pressing them down experimentally.

He and Marc sat in the basement practice room, not much bigger than a closet, their two chairs filling most of the space. Marc was unusually attentive and excited, barely pausing to daydream since they'd slipped out of their last class together. He pulled a piece of folded up paper out of a pocket, handing it to David.

"Here are some charts I drew showing you how to make the basic chords," he said. "The main trick is strumming a tight rhythm and being able to make the changes real smooth," he said. David looked at the chart, and moved his long, pale fingers to form a G chord. He strummed down slowly with his other hand. Like sunlight, the sound filled the room.

"Hold your thumb and first finger together," Marc said, watching David with lazy enthusiasm. David did as he was told, strumming up and down a few times. Marc clapped out a few different rhythms to strum, showed him some basic changes, and, with surprising speed, David was playing the chords to Good Golly Miss Molly.

"You're a natural," beamed Marc.

David nodded. "It just seems to make sense, you know?"

"Yeah," said Marc, "that's how it should be." They both sat for a moment, as David continued to play. Marc closed his eyes, nodding in time to the music.

The class bell rang raucously, shattering the moment. Mac sprang up, surprising David. "I need to go to this class," said Marc, "I have to speak to the professor."

"Sure," said David, "I'm staying down here." Marc gave him another sunny smile before leaving.

—

David practiced the rest of the day, until his fingers became too red and sore to keep playing. Over and over again, chord changes until he could play fluidly without pause. In his head he could hear a melody, and he tried to shape the chords to follow it. But there weren't enough on the chart for him to match it perfectly, and he gave up for the moment. It was a bit soon to write a whole song, anyway. He'd only just started playing.

It wasn't that David hadn't been interested in music before. When he was little, he was sure he would grow up to play the saxophone in Little Richard's band. He'd bought a plastic sax and taught himself to play to all of the rocker's songs. David even started to write his own little tunes, simple melodies he could play to himself.

It all had changed when he got to lower sixth, though. That's when the schoolyard fights had begun, and no tough boy played music. He lost interest in it—it didn't satisfy him anymore, and he knew there was no way he'd be able to play professionally. He just wasn't good enough.

But now, absently running his fingers over the smooth wood of the guitar, he found himself drawn again to music. He felt he had a hundred songs and melodies in his head, ready to burst out as soon as he knew how to make them real. And, this time, he was sure he could do it.

With a sigh, David slipped the guitar into its padded case and picked it up along with his satchel. He would have to forge a note of absence for tomorrow, explaining where he'd been for the last two periods. The doctor's office or a family emergency? David mused as he walked back upstairs, not noticing the student who had been standing outside his practice room door. The student who now silently turned to walk up a different set of stairs, running a hand through his messy caramel hair.

* * *

><p>A new poll is up for the next chapter—Sorry this one took so long!<p> 


	5. Cat People  Putting out Fire

**Chapter 5: Cat People (Putting Out Fire With Gasoline)**

_See these tears so blue_

_An ageless heart_

_that can never mend_

_These tears can never dry_

_A judgement made_

_can never bend_

Walking into school the next day, David felt like a balloon, bouncing happily from one routine to the next. His fingers itched to caress the fretboard again, curling to form the shape of different chords—G, D, E minor, C. He smiled cheerily at Marc in first period chemistry, sliding jauntily into the seat beside his pixie friend.

"Hello, hello," he said brightly. "Writing already?"

Marc was hunched low over a sheet of paper, scribbling so furiously with his fountain pen that spots of ink had flown up onto his cheeks.

"Sorry David. Need to finish this." He replied distractedly, eyes not leaving the paper. David peered over the boy's shoulder, squinting to read the cramped script.

And in days of elfin magic where whorling runes spoke the smoke of the world and the birds were innocent of blinking lights and grasping hands came our traveller to the bold door of that astral soldier with daisies on his breast.

At last Marc looked up, setting his pen aside.

"It's a short story I'm writing," he explained, "about the travels of a knight and his mole-wizard companion."

"Oh?" said David, smiling. "You've got all sorts of ink on your face, Marc," he said, pulling his cuff over his palm and rubbing the smudges off the elf-boy's cheek. Marc stared at him a second, before looking down at his paper again, ears red.

"Sorry," said David. "Didn't mean to—" Didn't mean to what? Mother him? It was hard not to, what with Marc's head in the clouds, the boy often seemed little more than a wide-eyed child.

"No, you're alright. I mean, it's alright. I—how's the guitar coming?"

"Great!" David said, hardly noticing Marc's blundering for his own musings. "I didn't know it would be so...natural."

"Oh, is it? Great," Marc started scribbling again, his ears gradually resuming their pale shade.

All told, David's buoyancy lasted him until second period. It wasn't the class he minded—deportment had quickly become his easiest class. It was surprisingly simple to become a teacher's favorite; David found he was a natural charmer, especially in the context of fancy tea and formal attire.

No, what brought him back to the ground was a chestnut-haired boy with baby blue eyes and generous lips. That is, Mick was still could-shouldering David. He had been since the day of the fight, purposefully ignoring David or else gazing, disappointed, at him.

This day was by far the worst.

"Quickly, get in pairs everyone," said the white haired professor, straightening her glasses.

David gave the room a once over, looking for Marc, but his friend wasn't there. He must have skipped. David tried grabbing the boy next to him, but found that everyone in the room seemed to have a partner.

"Does anyone not have..." he began, breaking off as he caught sight of Mick standing alone. David's face went warm, half-dreading the encounter. Taking a breath, he began to walk toward Mick.

He needn't have been worried, however; even as the boys' eyes met, Mick turned sharply around, pushing through the other boys to slam through the door. A few boys turned to look at David, confused. He heard a few whispers as people tried to figure out what was between the two.

David was entirely non-plussed. What had made Mick hate him so much? How could he hold one fight against David, a fight that hadn't even involved him? It wasn't like they were much more than acquaintances. Besides, no one else had seemed very upset about the affair.

Even though David could tell himself firmly that he shouldn't care—that he should pay no mind to Mick's derision, David couldn't help but flag under Mick's constant disapproval. He wanted nothing more than to be able to look the boy in the face; at the moment, his heart lurched every time he so much as caught sight of the back of Mick's head.

Partnerless, David had to sit the exercise out in frustrated silence. By lunch, David was only speaking in monosyllables.

—

Marc and David typically ate in the school's little curtained theater, away from the mess and noise of the dining hall. Eating their sandwiches today in silence, their quiet was disturbed by a blond boy, entering from stage left. His hair was long, brushing his lapels, and his face determined.

"Hey, David and Marc, right?" David felt his ears going hot. It was Ronson, the boy he had tried to "save" from his rugby coach.

"Yeah, that's us," said Marc, pulling on a curl of his wayward locks.

"I, eh, heard you two were into music—I mean, rock and roll." The boy had a thick, northern accent, nothing like the posh, etonesque tones of most of the other students.

"Sure thing," replied Marc happily.

"Well, I thought you might like to come with me to a party tonight. At my friend Keith's house. Mostly it's people who are playing rock music, just to jam and hang out, you know. Er... only if you want, of course..." He stared, awkward, at the ground.

Marc looked at David questioningly. "You want to?" David sighed, his lips compressing to a thin line. Marc was clearly excited—besides, he needed something to get his mind off of Mick. He forced himself to take a breath, relax.

"Yeah, all right," David said. "When?"

"If you can come after school, I can give you both a ride there."

"Brilliant," said Marc, giving his hair a playful toss.

"Then I'll...see you guys later." Ronson made his departure quickly, stumbling over a floorboard.

"That'll be a real gas," Marc said brightly.

"Yeah," David bit his lip, then smiled, resolving to go and enjoy himself no matter what had happened. "Hey, I'm gonna go practice a bit, all right?"

"All right," said Marc, giving David a long look. "I'll find you after class."

—

It didn't take long for David to find a good spot to play—taking the guitar outside, he sat in the shade of a thick oak tree, positioned just so he would be invisible to anyone who might glance out the school windows. He strummed the strings a few times to make sure they sounded right, not that he knew how to tune the thing, then curled his fingers over the fretboard. What to play?

At first he sketched around, playing a few random chords, but soon they settled into a pattern. David added a small section, picking out individual notes meditatively, then returned to the theme. He added another set of chords, strummed more forcefully. It just needed words. He hummed softly to himself. "Wear the dress your mother wore," he sang softly. He paused, biting his lip. "I will hold a lighted lamp and..." he stopped again, digging through his satchel for a scrap of paper to write on. He'd just found a piece when he noticed something move behind the tree. Slowly, he put down his guitar, and shifted to peer around the trunk.

On the other side stood a red-faced Mick Jagger who, as David caught sight of him, turned quickly to walk away.

"Where are you going now?" David cried, frustrated. "Scared I might beat you up?"

"Fuck off." The boy returned, barely glancing at David.

"What's your problem with me? Do you get off on lurking around and...I don't even know—judging my conduct?" Mick turned and stared at him, seemingly without an answer.

"If you're such a good boy why don't you just stay away from me altogether? Or are you trying to make me feel guilty or something? Like some sort of morality police? Because—"

"I misjudged you," Mick said, harshly. "As far as you should be concerned, I don't give a fuck about you or what you do. But anything you do reflects on me as a prefect, doesn't it? So I have to make sure you're not about to go lay it out on some kid again." He looked at his nails disdainfully. "Don't flatter yourself I'm interested in you, Jones. You're a no-one. I don't care for people who enjoy hurting other people. It's disgusting."

A spark of anger flared in David's breast, spreading like wildfire. Before he knew what he was doing, Mick's collar was in his hand, the boy shoved roughly against the oak tree.

"What the hell?!" Mick pushed out of David's grasp. "Are off your head?!" A scratch on his cheek oozed a few dots of blood.

"I-" David's throat went dry, "I'm so terribly..." He unclenched his hand woodenly. Before he could apologize, the chocolate haired Darcy had gone back inside, the door clicking shut behind him.

—

The tears came so quick David didn't realize he was crying, salt water forming warm paths down his cheeks. He roughly wiped them away with the back of his hand. What had he done? Who was at fault?

As he was furiously trying to abate his tears, the door swung open again. David looked up, hoping, for a second... but it was Marc, eyes concerned.

"You alright David?" He called, walking over to him.

"Yeah, it's nothing," David croaked, his puffy eyes betraying him.

"That Jagger just ran in looking a mess. And furious..." Marc sat down beside David. "Did something happen?"

"N-Yeah," David said. "I-I yelled at him. Y'know, about avoiding me all the time."

"Good on you," Marc said cheerily. David sat, miserable. "Wrong?"

"I think there's something wrong with me, Marc." David took a breath. "I grabbed him. By the collar. Without even realizing what I was doing. I just...had to make him hurt." Marc looked at David carefully. "Am I...I don't know, Marc. Why are you still friends with me?"

"You're not unbalanced, if that's what you're saying," Marc said, putting a hand on David's arm. "Those boys you beat had it coming. They'd done worse than you did to them."

"But I didn't know that."

"But you could tell they were, like, bad sorts."

"And Mick?"

"Sometimes I get so angry I could choke someone," Marc said. "It's not your fault that you're capable of following that through. You just need to find a channel for it all. Some way to look beyond it, to get rid of violent feelings. I write poetry..."

David took a deep breath, shutting his eyes.

"You're right," he said. "I need to find a way to deal with this."

"Come on, David. First tell me there's nothing wrong with you." David frowned. "Come on," Marc coaxed, shaking David's arm a little.

"Fine. There's nothing wrong with me." David conceded. Marc grinned widely, clouds parting to reveal warm sunshine.

"That wasn't too bad, for you," he laughed. "You're all kinds of all right, David. We should go meet Ronson."

"Yeah, all right." said David, putting the guitar back into it's soft case. "Thanks, Marc."

"It's nothing," the pixie boy replied. "There's his car."

—

A baby blue Triumph sat idling at the end of the school's drive, the long haired northerner at the wheel. David and Marc sprinted the last few yards to the car, Marc taking shotgun and David sliding into the back with his guitar.

"All ready?" Ronson asked nervously.

"Hit it!" Marc said with a laugh, and the car took off.


	6. Moonage Daydream

**Chapter 6: Moonage Daydream**

_Keep your 'lectric eye on me babe_

_Put your ray gun to my head_

_Press your space face close to mine, love_

_Freak out in a moonage daydream oh yeah!_

Ronson pulled neatly into the curb in front of a slouching brick row-house. David and Mick sprang out of the car, turning back to wait for Ronson, who was pulling on a leather jacket.

"All right, Ronson?" Marc called.

"Just give the door a knock," he replied, walking over to the pair. David pulled off his school jacket, stuffing it into the back of the car while Marc skipped up to the door, pushing the white doorbell before giving the door a knock for good measure. Behind him, David and Ronson stood shoulder to shoulder. David frowned, suddenly nervous to meet these unknown friends.

"Buck up, mate," Ronson said, "just a party." Before David could reply, the door swung open to reveal a skinny boy with the messiest black hair David had ever seen.

"Keith!" Ronson said.

"Hey Ronno! Who've you got here?"

"Jus' some friends from school—this is Marc, and this is David." Keith gave them all jaunty wave, brown eyes eager.

"Come in and have something to drink. We're all just hanging loose."

The three followed him into the house, which was packed with an improbable amount of people, sitting on couch arms and the floor, or standing back in the kitchen, or else (by the sound of it) on the second floor over their heads. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the chatter of conversation was cut with the sound of guitar and bass, bongos and pipes.

"All right!" Marc said appreciatively, "There's some real heavy boogie goin' on here!" He pushed a curl out of his face.

Keith laughed, "Make yourself at home."

"You wanna grab something to drink?" Ronson (or was it Ronno?) asked.

"Nah, I'm going to hang over here," Marc said dreamily, walking over to the living room group.

"I'll go with you," David said to Ronno, a little nervous to sit down with these strangers.

Together, they made their way back through the crowd to a small, low kitchen. A few people gathered around the sink chatting and pouring drinks.

"What do you want?" Ronno said, turning the bottles so the labels faced forward. His long golden hair fell into his face, but he let it be.

"Give me anything," David ran his hand through his own hair. He needed get a little loose, after that fight. Loosed and juiced, as Marc would say. Ronno nodded, grabbing a glass and indiscriminately pouring a measure from several different bottles. He handed the finished product over to David before pouring his own mystery drink.

"Cheers." The drink was sweet and fizzy and David liked it. He drank half of it before wandering back into the living room and up the stairs to where the sound of music had come from.

—

A small bedroom was packed with ten people, holding all sorts of instruments, singing and chatting freely. Keith held a guitar against his chest, picking out a complex and beautiful melody. Seeing David, he waived him over to sit beside him. David's eyes lit up with excitement.

"Do you play?" Keith asked.

"Yeah, a bit. I'm learning, actually. Probably not much cop at it yet."

"Here, I'll show you a trick or two," Keith said, pressing the guitar into David's hands, which reflexively curled around the instrument. His heart gave a little thrum as he stroked the strings.

"Move, your fingers a bit. Right. How are you strumming? Tilt that hand. Great." David looked at Keith nervously, strumming a few of the chords he had picked out that morning. Keith listened, eyes half closed and head tilted back against a pillow.

"That's nice," said a girl, leaning over to hear better. "You got words?"

"Well, I—" Before David could explain, four more people poured into the room—it was Mick, surrounded, swarmed, by three girls, all laughing and talking over each other. Mick accepted a flask from someone by the door, drinking deeply.

"Mick!" Keith stood up, and Mick leaned across a bassist and two girls with bongos to kiss him squarely on the mouth. They lingered there a moment, eyes closed, before breaking apart. Keith helped Mick around the others.

"Have you heard this kid yet? I think he can really jive with us..." before Keith turned to David, David was out the door, down the stairs, and utterly miserable.

—

His chest was hurting again, and David sank to sit on the bottom step, arms clutching across himself. He closed his eyes. He couldn't get upset, couldn't get angry, because then his heart, no—his ribs would ache even more. It must have to do with the stress.

It was just too much. Mick had no right. How could he ignore David, shout at David, for giving him a bad name when he was here drinking and carousing like the rest? And that...kiss with Keith. A lump rose in David's throat. Not because of the kiss, of course. He could care less about that. But David and Keith had been getting along so well, and then Mick had come and ruined it. Would ruin it. David pulled himself back to his feet, draining the last of his glass and pushing through the living room.

There was Marc, pixie boy cross-legged on the floor, singing with tambourine in hand, the other kids around him joining in or closing their eyes and nodding to the music. And Ronno, talking with two other boys seriously, every now and then pushing his silky blond hair away from his face.

And here was David.

Alone.

Always alone.

He walked back into the kitchen, set his glass on the counter, and filled it to the brim. The room was empty, so David sat on the table, listening to the laughter outside, sipping his drink until it was drained. Heat spread up through his chest and limbs until he either felt perfectly okay or on the brink of crying.

The worst was that, after everything, Mick hadn't even noticed him there. He wasn't even significant enough for Mick to hate him.

David swayed back into the hall, legs like jelly, shouldering past a pair of guys in gold vests and platform shoes, walking straight into Keith's back.

"Hey, love," Keith said, drunk, giving David's arm a squeeze. David pulled away, head reeling, and walked straight into the wall, to the amusement of Keith and his neighbors. "Mind the wall, love!" Keith called.

Though his face remained blank and aloof, inside David was reeling. He walked back up the stairs to find the bedroom occupied by Mick and his giggling girls, drinking and laughing and snogging. David turned sharply and walked through the nearest door.

He found himself in a smaller bedroom. It wasn't pristine but far from the condition of the rest of the rest of the house. It was dark, but David could make out the shape of a guitar in one corner.

He picked it up gently, clumsily placing his fingers in a chord. The drinks were starting to go to his head, but he still managed to play the tune he had written that morning. The words came to him like a dream. Time passed without him without him noticing...

_Your darkened eyes throw mystery,_

_But your lips are void of history,_

_You could not imagine that it could happen this way, could you?_

_I will give you dreams and I'll tell you things you'll like to hear—_

_Let your hair hang down, wear the dress your mother wore,_

_Let me sleep beside you..._

CRACK!

Lightning flashed across the room, lighting everything in stark white for a moment. David dropped the guitar on the bed, jolting upright.

FLASH!

Without even thinking, he dashed to the closet, tugging the door open and throwing himself in. He pulled the door shut before the lightning flashed again. Trembling, he scrunched into the back of the closet, trying to make himself small.

If there was one thing that scared him, it was thunderstorms. Ever since he had been a young boy, he had hid under the covers, or else beneath his bed. They were the only things left (or so he thought) that could, in the right conditions, reduce him to a whimpering child in the dark. Coupled with the drink, and the fight, and Mick's...well, Mick, David was simply a mess. Pressing his palms to his eyes to keep from crying, David leaned against the wall.

—

He was feeling sleepy and must have drifted off, because when he next was aware of things, there was someone walking in the room beyond the closet, and the rest of the house was silent.

CRACK!

David jumped a little bit where he sat, hitting his head against the wall. He pulled himself into the jackets a little to where it felt safer. The person outside must have heard him, though, because suddenly the shadows of two feet stretched under the door. Lightning flashed followed by another rumble of thunder, and the door was pulled open.

It was Mick. Of course it was Mick. Face half-lit from the hall outside, hair ruffled and eyes clearest blue. They both stared at each other in confusion for a moment. Then Mick looked furious.

"What the hell—"

CRACK!

David jolted again, unable to hide his shivering. For a moment, Mick's face was mixed-up with emotions—should he be angry, sympathetic? Then, he smiled resignedly. He reached a hand down to David.

"Come on, then," he said. David took his hand and let himself be helped to his feet, so that he and Mick were inches apart. Still shaking, David could do nothing but look into those eyes like sky.

Mick led him by the hand over to a plush armchair, sitting him down. He pulled a thick quilt out of the closet, tucking it around David. Thunder struck again, but David was too focused on Mick to react. He felt like he was in a dream, and maybe that was the drink, but he didn't mind. Reflexively, he snuggled further into the chair.

Mick pulled out a pair of headphones, fitting them around David's face and plugging them into the radio. It was playing big band music quietly, and David soon felt his eyes fluttering shut again, hardly noticing when Mick bent over to look him in the eyes, or when he ruffled David's soft blond hair gently.

"Goodnight," he said, but David was already asleep.


End file.
